


Blood And Ash

by bajabastard



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Male Apprentice (The Arcana), Self-Harm, its accidental tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bajabastard/pseuds/bajabastard
Summary: The moment Asra's world collapses in on him and his dreams turn to blood and ash.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> hi my name's oliver and i want to hurt you :)

You’re in the palace when it happens. Instantly you know exactly what it is, what just happened. A scrap of baseless hope is the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

  
For years its been there, the subtle tugging feeling connecting you and your apprentice. It was there from the moment you laid eyes on him and has never faltered since then. Well, until now. You could feel it when he first got sick, you could feel it as his life force was slowly sapped away, the connection getting weaker every day.

  
And now, all at once, like a bridge collapsing into the ocean, it shattered. The spot he filled in your heart is just an empty void and you feel like it’s pulling in everything around it. You feel like it’s only a matter of time before you collapse into it.

  
You might have been holding a conversation when you first felt it break, maybe you were in the middle of doing something, maybe you were even asleep. It makes no difference, all that matters is that you weren’t by his side. You were miles away, living in comfort as he suffered in the Lazaret.

  
Somehow you got onto a boat, maybe you even stole it, you honestly have no idea. You try to use magic, try to propel yourself there, maybe, just maybe, so you can get there in time, but you can’t, you can’t, you just can’t. If you look at that part of yourself, if you acknowledge the void there for even a moment you would have been forced to realize what it is. That he’s dead and gone and you lost your chance to save him.

  
You don’t though, instead you paddle until the palms of your hands are bloody and raw, until your blood rolls down the paddle into the water, attracting nearby fish. You watch them and recall their names, you recite the names of each of your burning muscles, you count the rings in the wood of your boat. You do anything, anything at all, but think of your apprentice.

  
You feel like your bones were ripped out. You replace them with mantras, little phrases repeating over and over. Your spine is ‘I still have time, I’m not too late, I still have time, its okay’. Your ribs each represent the step of a plan, you’re going to find him, then you’ll take him back to the palace and make someone fix him, there must be someone who can, Julian said he was making progress, you’ll take him to Julian, he’ll fix him it’ll be okay he’ll be okay- The little bones of your fingers are all the promises he made to you, to never leave you, to always be by your side, he wouldn’t break those promises, right?

  
Your teeth, chattering aggressively, make you realize how cold you are. You don’t care except to appreciate that you no longer need to keep your grip on the paddle, your fingers have frozen into place and you couldn’t let go if you tried.

  
Your mind is so busy with reassuring itself, over and over and over, that you only notice you’re almost there from the paddle nearly falling out of your hands. It gets warmer the closer you get to the Lazaret and your fingers have thawed and become limp, the frozen blood has defrosted and drips slowly into the water.

  
The grain of the wood feels like sandpaper and razor blades to the raw nerves on your palms but you can’t stop now, you can’t give up, every moment that you waste could be one closer to- No. No, you can’t think about what might be happening, he’s going to be okay, he has to be, there’s no other option.

  
Your boat bumps gently on the dark sand of the Lazaret’s shore. You scramble out, pouring out of your boat into the freezing water. Idly, as one might note that a picture is crooked or that there’s water spilled somewhere, you realize that you’re not wearing shoes, and that the gloomy water concealed what feels like broken glass.

  
You trudge forward and before you’ve even left the water your feet have already gone numb. The moment you’re on solid ground you break into a sprint, not caring what might be in your way, or if you might slip on your own blood, which is pouring freely onto the earth.

  
You’re being pulled to a spot. The connection is gone but something is there, something guides each fall of your feet, an invisible map that your subconscious knows by heart. You follow it, sprinting full tilt with no regard for anything but how you can get there the fastest. Branches whip your body, tearing clothing and drawing blood. The pain distracts you, grounds you. You do your best to focus on that pain, its tangible, manageable.

  
Ashy sand greets your abused feet, it feels soft in comparison to the terrain of the island, it almost feels soothing but you don’t want it to, you want sharp rocks and branches, you want your body to feel as bad as your soul. You know that that’s not possible.

  
Water laps at your toes, you can’t tell if its boiling hot or freezing cold, either way you barely feel it. It hardly registers as you fall to your knees, eyes locked at a spot on the ground. This is where you were being pulled. There’s nothing here. There’s ash and sand and. And. You’re digging. You find something, you cradle it in your hands. Bone. Its charred bone.

  
The blood seeping from your hands puddles around it, the porous surface pulls it in.  
You stare at the blood soaked bone in your hands as ash slowly settles on you. You hear the gentle lapping of the water, the muted roar of furnaces in the background.

  
This is it. This is all that’s left of him. Everything hits you at once. It feels like the air is pulled from your lungs, like the blood in your veins is molten metal. You absently note the wetness of your face and the taste of salt on your tongue, as well as the coppery tang of blood. You must have bitten your mouth at some point. You try to focus on that, trying to find out what part of your mouth is bleeding but you can’t. You can hardly feel anything, the world feels distant and meaningless. 

He’s gone. 

                He’s GONE

                                    HES GONE HES GONE HESGONE HE S GON E HESGONE H

The world goes black. 


	2. Part II

At some point you wake up. You collapsed where you were kneeling, your feet are still in the water and ash has completely coated your body. The half of your face that wasn’t pressed into the sand is coated in it, you have to scrape it off. It’s reluctant to part with the sticky drying blood that’s run down your face. 

You sit up, your feet still in the water, and stare into the distance. You have something in your hand. You know it’s important and you can’t let it go, you can’t ever let it go. Its convenient that your hand is already glued shut by blood and you don’t have the strength to pull it open. You don’t want to think too hard about what it is. 

This doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real. He’s gone so why is the world still spinning? Why does your heart still beat? 

You contemplate your heart for a moment. The stubborn thing still beats despite everything. Maybe you should do the same. Maybe you can hope beyond hope for… For something. Anything. 

You get up. You follow the path of broken branches made by your final desperate sprint back to your boat. You paddle back, slowly. You can only use one hand. The other, still curled shut, is held tightly against your chest. You can feel the beat of your heart against it. 

Eventually you feel your boat gently bump against a familiar coastline. You walk through the streets of Vesuvia, unaware of the staring garnered by your battered, limping form. 

You reach your home. You collapse into your bed, still covered in ash and drying blood. You fall asleep to the persistent beating of your heart, to the impossible scrap of hope you refuse to give up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> I appreciate any feedback and/or constructive criticism!


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